Hot Six (Stephanie Plum 6) - Page 39
“What happened to the Rollswagen?”
“I gave it back to the Dealer.”
The sun was climbing in the sky, burning off a morning haze, warming Trenton. Bureaucrats and shopkeepers were pouring into center city. School buses were back at the lot, awaiting the end of the school day. Burg housewives were bent over their Hoovers. And my friend Marilyn Truro at the DMV was on her third double decaf latte, wondering if it would help if she added a second nicotine patch to the one she already had on her arm, thinking it would feel really good to be able to choke the next person in line.
Lula and Bob and I kept to our own thoughts as we rolled along Hamilton en route to the button factory. I was going through a mental inventory of equipment. Stun gun: in my left pocket. Pepper spray: in my right pocket. Cuffs: hooked to the back loop on my Levi's. Gun: at home, in the cookie jar. Courage: at home, with the gun.
“I don't know about you,” Lula said when we got to Munson's house, “but I'm not planning on going up in smoke today. I vote we bash this guy's door in and stomp on him before he has a chance to light up.”
“Sure,” I said. Of course, I knew from past experience that neither of us was actually capable of bashing in a door. Still, it sounded good while we were idling at the curb, locked up in the car.
I cruised around back, got out, and looked in Munson's garage window. No car. Gee, too bad. Probably Munson wasn't home.
“No car here,” I said to Lula.
“Hunh,” Lula said.
We drove around the block, parked, and knocked on Munson's front door. No answer. We looked in his front windows. Nothing.
“He could be hiding under the bed,” Lula said. “Maybe we should still bash his door in.”
I stepped back and made a sweeping gesture with my hand. “After you.”
“Unh-unh,” Lula said. “After you.”
“No, no . . . I insist.”
“The hell you do. I insist.”
“Okay,” I said. “Let's face it. Neither of us is going to bash this door down.”
“I could do it if I wanted,” Lula said. “Only I don't feel like it right now.”
“Yeah, right.”
“You think I couldn't do serious damage to this door?”
“That's what I'm suggesting.”
“Hunh,” Lula said.
The door to the adjoining house opened, and an old woman stuck her head out. “What's going on?”
“We're looking for Morris Munson,” I said.
“He isn't home.”
“Oh, yeah? How do you know?” Lula said. “How can you be sure he isn't hiding under the bed?”
“I was out back when he drove away. I was letting the dog out, and Munson came with a suitcase. Said he was gonna be gone for a while. As far as I'm concerned, he could be gone forever. He's a wacko. He was arrested for killing his wife, and some idiot judge let him out on bail. Can you imagine?”
“Go figure,” Lula said.
The woman looked us over. “I guess you're friends of his.”
“Not exactly,” I said. “We work for Munson's bail bonds agent.” I handed her my business card. “If he returns I'd appreciate a call.”
“Sure,” the woman said, “but I got a feeling he isn't returning anytime soon.”
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